


librarian prompts

by owlinaminor



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff, Gen, M/M, Prompt Fic, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-09
Updated: 2014-06-09
Packaged: 2018-02-03 23:29:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1759647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/owlinaminor/pseuds/owlinaminor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Send me 'Librarian!' + a number and I'll grab the closest book, flip to that page number, and write a ficlet using a random line of text from said page." (Spoiler: the closest book was the brick.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	librarian prompts

**Author's Note:**

> I actually sort-of got prompts on Tumblr for the first time ever via that lovely askbox game, and I think they turned out pretty well (albeit a bit ridiculous) so I'm putting them on AO3. Enjoy!

**1\. “‘Does not Monsieur wish to breakfast?’”  - Les Miserables, page 156**

At precisely ten-oh-seven A.M., there is a harsh beeping noise, followed by a groan, a thump, and an impressive array of curses, in that order.

Combeferre, sitting at the kitchen table, raises one solitary eyebrow.  Other than that, he is the perfect picture of calm: one hand is holding a book, the other a mug of coffee; his glasses are perched comfortably on his nose; his face is bathed in morning sunlight from the nearby window.

There are another few thumps.  Then, a tearing noise.  After that, a muffled crash.  And finally, a, “Goddamn fucking  _shit_!”

Combeferre turns the page of his book.

There are a few moments of precious, blissful silence — and then Courfeyrac bursts in from the bedroom, a veritable hurricane of whirling limbs and shouting voice and almost-falling objects.

"I’m late," he says, breathless.  "I’m late, I’m late, I’m so fucking late, why didn’t you  _wake me up,_ Ferre, I don’t want to  _lose my job_  —”

Combeferre shrugs, still not looking up from his book.  ”Isn’t that what your twenty-something alarms are for?”

"Yeah, but  _sometimes I sleep through most of them, Ferre_!”  Courfeyrac flies around the kitchen, collecting jacket and wallet and — there should be something else, he thinks, he’s probably missing something —

"That’s your fault, not mine," Combeferre replies.  "Are you going to get breakfast, or will you be starved as well as fired?"

"Breakfast!" Courfeyrac shouts, from halfway out the door.  "Of course!  Ferre, you’re a genius!  I almost forgot breakfast!"

He returns to the kitchen — somehow not dropping his bag, wallet, phone, or uniform for work in the process — to scrounge for food.  ”Is this coffee?  It  _is_.  Ah, coffee, blessed coffee.”

"It’s cold," Combeferre warns him.

"I don’t care.  Coffee is magical, no matter the temperature.  Just like you, Ferre.  And, um, a bagel, bagels are good, and — is that a cookie? — and maybe an apple, to be healthy —"

"Courf, that’s a tomato."

"Still healthy!  Great!  Okay, now even if I get fired, I won’t starve!"

Courfeyrac grins in the direction of his boyfriend (who is still engrossed in his book, in the exact same position as before), then takes a swig of cold coffee and sprints out the door, letting it bang shut behind him.

Combeferre turns another page.

He’s about to turn a third when the door opens with a whoosh.

"Ferre!  I almost forgot!  The most important thing!"

Courfeyrac rushes into the apartment, drops his coat on a chair, bends down, kisses Combeferre right on the lips, stands back up, grabs his coat, and runs back out.

"I love you!" he shouts, just before the door closes (again.)

Combeferre sits still for a moment before he turns his page, smiling.

* * *

**2. **"Every skull-cap may dream of the tiara." - Les Miserables, page 33****

Grantaire is an artist.  As much as he might love to possess talent in engineering, or business, or coffee-making, or anything that could actually get him a job, he is bound by the paint and canvas as surely as if someone had chained a paintbrush to his wrist.  His free moments – in class, on the bus, in ABC meetings, and everywhere in between – are spent with a pencil, sketching whatever catches his eye.  He wants to capture the world, put it down on paper for other people to see the same way he sees it.  He is an artist – it’s a part of his identity, undeniable and unrelenting.

And as an artist, he knows that sometimes, he just has to face the inevitable.

“Hey, R, can you draw me?”

It’s the dreaded question of every artist, really.  Everyone wants to know what they look like on paper, and they all think they’re entitled to it, no matter what important projects their artist friends might have instead.  (Grantaire’s currently sitting in the corner, nursing a bottle of cognac and doodling Enjolras as a very homicidal pigeon, but still.)  He sighs, puts his bottle down on the table, and looks up, ready to face whichever annoying asshole wants –

Wait a second.

“R?” Bahorel repeats.  He’s standing in front of the table, hands clasped awkwardly behind his back, face slightly pink.  “Something wrong?”

“No,” Grantaire says slowly, “you’re just pretty far from the first person I’d expect to come up to me, asking me to draw him.”

“Oh, well, um.”  Bahorel shifts from one foot to the other – it’s a strange look, for a man Grantaire’s seen knock out three guys with one blow.  “You draw everyone, all of our friends, but you don’t really draw me that often?  And I have a.  Um.  A request.”

Grantaire lifts his arms up and places them behind his head, then leans back in his chair.  “A request,” he says.  “Well, I do owe you for that time you paid at the bar.  And that other time.  And probably like five other times.”

Bahorel grins.  “More like twenty thousand other times.  But yeah.”  He takes a deep breath, then asks quickly, as though if he doesn’t get the words out right this second he’ll lose the nerve forever, “Can you draw me in a tiara?”

“A tiara ...” Grantaire trails off, picturing it.  It would have to be a silver tiara, probably, with a dark blue stone of some kind, to bring out Bahorel’s eyes.  And it would have to be kind-of a weird shape, to fit his big, square head ... But it could work.  It could be good practice, since Grantaire doesn’t draw jewelry that often.

“Sure,” he says.  And he picks up his pencil to start tracing the shape of Bahorel’s face.

The eyes of the subject in question go comically wide, as though Grantaire has just suggested that the Musain will be serving free alcohol for the next year.  “Really?”

Grantaire shrugs and fixes one of his lines.  “It’s not the weirdest thing I’ve drawn.”

“You’re not going to ask why?”

The artist shrugs again.  “Who _hasn’t_ wondered what he’d be like as a princess, right?”

Bahorel considers that, then nods.  “Right,” he agrees.  “Just ... Don’t tell anyone, please?  I have a reputation to uphold, you know.”

Grantaire gives him a lazy one-handed salute, then goes back to sketching.

In the end, he draws Bahorel in a tiara, high heels, and a fancy gown vaguely modeled after Disney’s Cinderella and posts it in the ABC Facebook group.  Courfeyrac gets it framed for Bahorel for his birthday.

* * *

**3\. “And he said to his daughter in a low tone, and with a wink, ‘Some love affair!’” – Les Miserables, page 394**

“Papa!”

Jean Valjean peers out of his study and looks down the stairs to find Enjolras pulling on his bright red jacket, his hair wet from a recent shower.

“What is it?” Valjean asks.  “Are you going somewhere?”

“Yeah,” Enjolras answers.  He spares a glance up, then grabs a sneaker and starts hopping in place, trying to wrestle it onto his foot without bothering to sit down.  “Can I borrow your car?”

Valjean stares at his son for a moment, trying to determine if something might be wrong.  His eyes are their normal blue, he doesn’t look any more tired than usual, and he’s wobbly, but not tipsy – and besides, Valjean did his weekly drug search yesterday, and he didn’t find anything.  (It’s always possible that he could have overlooked something, but the chances are pretty low.  Valjean is very thorough.)

Finally, he says slowly, “You _are_ aware that it’s a school night, correct?”

Enjolras, who has now managed to attach one shoe to its respective foot, is in search of the other, his face buried in the depths of the hall closet.  “I’m aware,” he replies.  “It’s just.  Um.  I have a thing.”

Valjean steps out of his study, then walks to the top of the stairs and crosses his arms across his chest in what his children’s friends call his I Spent Years In Prison and I Will Hurt You in Ways You Never Thought Possible pose.  “A thing,” he repeats.

When Enjolras emerges from the closet, other shoe in hand, his face is almost as red as his jacket.  “I’m – working with Combeferre and Courfeyrac on a project.”

“Of course.  What kind of a project?”

“Physics.”

“Hmm.”  Valjean thinks for a moment, then says, “I thought Courfeyrac was taking that environmental science course, not physics?”

“Oh, um, he’s not actually going to be doing the project, he’s just there for ... Moral support.”  Enjolras’ battle with his second shoe goes much more quickly than his similar battle with its partner, so it isn’t long before he’s standing, actually facing his father for the first time in their conversation.  Valjean has watched his son win debate championships, speak in front of hundreds, and out-stare their neighbor Javert, but this is the most nervous he’s ever seen Enjolras.

“Moral support,” Valjean echoes.  After a moment, he nods.  “Sounds reasonable.”

“Really? – I mean, of course.”

“Just be back by curfew, young man,” Valjean says.  He reaches into his pocket, grabs his keys, and tosses them down to Enjolras.  And the very moment they clink in Enjolras’ palm, he turns and is out the door, slamming it shut behind him.

Valjean makes his way back to his office, chuckling to himself.

“Papa?” Cosette calls from her room.  “What was that all about?”

He opens her door and gives her a wink, grinning like a man half his age.  “It appears your brother has a date.”

* * *

**4\. “No name is to be read there.” Les Miserables, page 908**

It’s the minute they’ve all been dreading for the past twenty-four hours.

Well, it doesn’t sound so bad when one looks at the time frame, but seriously, it was an awful twenty-four hours.  Tempers were running high and nerves were running thin.  Marius nearly threw up in the bathroom.  Courfeyrac was found sobbing on Combeferre’s shoulder.  Enjolras forgot a word in one of his speeches.  Grantaire lay down on the floor and refused to move for his entire lunch period.  Jehan wrote poetry so dark it made the nearby flowers wilt.  Bossuet tried to purposely trip down the stairs.  And Joly – sweet, kind, nervous Jolllly – is now sitting in his favorite seat in the exact middle of the classroom, and he thinks he might faint.

The class is silent as Mr. Javert opens his bag and takes out a stack of papers.  To a passing observer, the papers would appear to be completely normal, if somewhat meticulously stapled, but closer inspection would reveal pages of pen scratches in the color of dried blood, eraser marks so dark they could make a blind man scared, and traces of enough tears to turn the Great Lakes to salt water.

“I have graded your tests,” Mr. Javert says simply.

He stands – like an executioner making his way to the guillotine – and begins to hand back papers.  Mr. Javert moves up one row and down the next, placing the tests face-down on one desk after another in perfectly alphabetical order.  It’s a cruel symphony: the dull smack of paper to desk, the swift uptake of breath before a grade is revealed, the quiet rustle of flipping the paper over, and then, at last, the finale – a slow exhale, or a victory whoop, or a choked-back sob.

Joly is definitely going to faint.

Bossuet turns around from his seat in the first row, as though automatically sensing his friend’s distress, and sends him a reassuring smile.  (Despite the fact that Bossuet already has his test, and probably did horribly, because they all did horribly, it was the hardest test of the year, oh _God_.)

Joly breathes in and out, trying to stay calm, but all he can see is his friends getting their papers before him: Bahorel scribbling over his test in black Sharpie, Combeferre slowly putting his head down on his desk and staying there, Courfeyrac shrugging and mouthing, “Could’ve been worse,” Enjolras getting red in the face and raising a hand to argue over a couple of points with Mr. Javert, Feuilly frowning as though he can change his grade simply by being upset with it, Grantaire aggressively doodling over all of his wrong answers ...

Joly studied.  He did.  He spent hours the night before the test doing practice problem after practice problem until he literally could solve them in his sleep.  He stayed after the day before, asking Mr. Javert every question he could think of and then some.  He whispered equations to himself in every class until the test.  But if all of his friends did so badly ... Well, he’s definitely not smarter than any of them, he probably failed horribly and he’s going to fail math and he won’t get into college and _oh no_ Mr. Javert is getting close to his desk his test is next he’s about to find out just _how badly_ he failed –

Mr. Javert is moving on.  He’s stopping at the next desk.  And the next.  But Joly doesn’t have his test!

“Mr. Javert?” he asks, raising his hand slightly.  The teacher doesn’t hear him.

“Mr. Javert?” he tries again.  Still no answer.

“Mr. Javert!  Sir!”  Nothing.

At least, not until Mr. Javert finishes handing out papers and heads back to the front of the room, a stern expression on his menacing features.

“You have a question, Joly,” he says – and the way he phrases it, as though it’s some kind of crime for Joly to even consider asking a question, only serves to make Joly’s heart race faster.

“I – yes.  I – um, I,” Joly stammers.

“Yes?”

“I – I don’t have a test.  Sir.”

“Ah.”  Mr. Javert crosses his arms across his chest.  “I can see how that might be a problem, yes.”

“Do you – I mean, I definitely took it – I’d know, I was here – I _did_ take it, didn’t I?”  Joly is about ready for a hole to open in the ground and swallow him up.

“You did,” Mr. Javert says.  “But I do not have a test with your name on it.”

“I – oh, _no_.”  Usually, Joly always puts his name on his tests first – but yesterday, he must have been so panicky that he completely forgot.  This is bad, this is so bad –

“I do, however, have a test with no name and handwriting that is strikingly similar to yours,” Mr. Javert adds, almost carelessly.  He picks up a paper from his desk and holds it up, just far enough away that Joly can’t quite see the writing upon it.

“That’s mine, it – it must be mine!” he exclaims.  “Can I have it, please?  Please don’t cancel my grade or anything – or, actually, maybe you should, maybe I should re-take it – or maybe I should just drop the class, that might be better for everyone –”

Mr. Javert allows Joly to ramble for a few seconds before interrupting.  “No, that would not be better.”

“What?”

And then, something never before seen in the entire school year – perhaps even in the history of the high school – happens.  Mr. Javert smiles.

“Have the only student who got an A on this test drop the class?” he says.  “That would simply be wrong.”

And the entire classroom erupts with cheers.

Joly can’t believe it.  Him?  He got an A?  On the test that even Combeferre called difficult?  How?

But he must have, because – well, because everyone is applauding for him, and they’re chanting his name, and his friends are surrounding him, and here’s the test with his handwriting and a giant A right there on the top of the page, and –

It’s incredible.  He’s still not entirely sure how he managed to pull this off, but Joly got an A on the hardest test of the year, and he is on top of the world.  If you asked him, he could probably fly.

“You’re amazing, Joly,” Bossuet says – Bossuet is in front of him, grinning so brightly he could light a bonfire.

“I’m – I’m not,” Joly tries to correct him.  “I just studied a lot, way too much probably –”

“Yeah, but you were so freaking determined!  You worked harder than anyone else, you definitely deserve this.  You’re the best, Joly.  The best.”

Bossuet is grinning, and holding Joly’s hands, and pulling him up out of his chair.  Joly tries to tell him that he’s wrong, _he’s_ the one who’s amazing – he’s always so cheerful, and generous, and he can always make Joly feel better, and Joly doesn’t know what he’d do without him, but –

But somehow that gets lost, gone the way of Joly’s fears and his inhibitions, and he’s kissing Bossuet instead.

Everyone’s cheering again.  Joly never thought he’d be the center of attention, especially not today of all days – but, strangely, he doesn’t really mind it that much.

* * *

**5\. “But what a sheep!” – Les Miserables, page 24**

“Courfeyrac, seriously, what are we doing?”

It’s been two hours since Courfeyrac dragged Combeferre out of bed, handed him a thermos of coffee, and thrust him into Bahorel’s car.  Two hours of driving – first through Paris, then on ancient dirt roads that made the car bump and jostle like a marble in a giant’s palm, all of it with Courfeyrac singing along to the most obnoxious songs on the radio and no book to read.  Combeferre was going to spend his morning reading up on microbiology and the latest discoveries in immunology research, not cramped into a tiny, uninsured car that smells faintly of piss.

At least, now that they’re out of the car (in the middle of an empty field, no less) he can breathe properly.

“Don’t you have any idea?” Courfeyrac replies.  He turns to Combeferre, grinning widely – he _knows_ it’s so much harder for Combeferre to be mad at him when he smiles like that, it’s not fair.

“Not really, no.”  Combeferre looks around, taking in his surroundings: a sea of grass stretching out to the horizon, only broken occasionally by colorful spots of wildflowers and distant shapes vaguely resembling trees.  The sun hangs serenely overhead, spilling its golden warmth down through the clear, blue sky onto the countryside below.  Behind him, the road leads off to destinations unknown, no cars in sight for miles.  Somewhere nearby, a bird chirps merrily.

Combeferre has no idea why he’s here, and says as much.

“Really?” Courfeyrac asks.  “I thought you were supposed to be the smart one.”

Combeferre rolls his eyes.  “Even the most brilliant of scientists would have trouble figuring out how your mind works.”

“Thanks,” Courfeyrac says, laughing.  “And we’re here because you need to get out more.  You spend so much time cooped up in the apartment, with your books and all your science-y stuff, that you don’t ever come outside and enjoy the nice weather!  Come on, you have to admit it’s really nice out.”

“It is,” Combeferre agrees.

“See?  What’d I tell you?  So, I told the lab you’re not coming in today, and we’re spending the day here.  You don’t get to back out of this, so don’t even try.”  Courfeyrac points at his boyfriend sternly, emphasizing that he is not to even think about arguing, then runs back to the car and disappears for a moment into the trunk.

Combeferre waits, marveling at this strange, wonderful man whose affections he has somehow managed to secure.  (And his ass.  Courfeyrac has a nice ass, especially in jeans, and when he’s bent over to peer into the trunk – can you really blame Combeferre for enjoying the view?)

Courfeyrac reappears after a moment, honest-to-got picnic basket in hand.  “Breakfast,” he explains, then proceeds to find a spot of soft grass and spread a beach towel over it.  Combeferre heads over to help him.

Soon enough, they practically have a whole buffet spread out on the grass: croissants, fruit, sausages, toast, and a large thermos of coffee.

“There are sandwiches in there for lunch, too,” Courfeyrac says, gesturing to the picnic basket.

Combeferre stares at it for a second.  It hits him, suddenly, that Courfeyrac usually can’t be trusted to plan anything.  That Courfeyrac is usually one of the least responsible of their friends.  That asking Courfeyrac to get food is like asking a lion to babysit a herd of gazelles.

“I can’t believe you did all of this for me,” Combeferre says quietly.

Courfeyrac turns to him, a small smile (the smile Combeferre likes to think is just for him) on his face.  “Of course I did.  I’d do anything for you.”

And, well – Combeferre just _has_ to kiss him, after that.  It’s the only possible course of action, really.

Combeferre has Courfeyrac on his back, pressing kisses along his shoulders and up his neck, when he notices a spot of white maybe twenty feet away.  He stops and sits up, adjusting his glasses to see better.

“Ferre?” Courfeyrac asks.  “What is it?”

It’s – well, it’s mostly white, the fluffy kind of white, like a huge cotton ball, or maybe a marshmallow.  And it has a black head, small, rounded ears, beady eyes staring straight into Combeferre’s –

“A sheep,” he tells his boyfriend.  “There’s a sheep watching us.”

“What?  For real?”  Courfeyrac pushes himself into a sitting position, follows the line of Combeferre’s gaze, then starts to laugh.  “There’s a sheep watching us!” he repeats.  “Isn’t that great, Ferre?  Hey, Mr. Sheep.  Or is it Mrs. Sheep?  Comrade Sheep?  I’m planning to have some hot sex with my amazing boyfriend, here.  Want to join us?”

Combeferre’s eyes go wide.  “ _What_?”

Courfeyrac laughs – giggles turning to chuckles turning to full-on laughter, until he’s quivering like a leaf in the wind, falling back onto the grass.  “I was _kidding_ , Ferre,” he says, with some difficulty.  Then, raising an eyebrow, he adds, “Unless you want to?”

Combeferre hits him.  (It only makes him laugh harder.)

And then, somehow, Courfeyrac is pulling his boyfriend down and kissing him again, kissing him as though they have all the time in the world and he wants to spend all of it doing exactly this – and maybe this isn’t how Combeferre pictured his day going, but he’s completely okay with it.  So, totally okay.  More than okay.

(Even if the sheep doesn’t leave for the next hour.)

**Author's Note:**

> feel free to ask me to write more dumb fics or just bother me in general on [tumblr](http://liberteegalitehomosexualite.tumblr.com/)


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